As a managing editor, I'm now overseeing the Entrepreneurs channel--and excited about expanding our online forum with new voices and faces, new ideas, new products and services. I have spent most of my 14-plus years at Forbes on the print side, editing stories on education, immigration, Wall Street, investigative takedowns, corruption scandals abroad, corporate and billionaire profiles, up-and-coming startups. Now, at last, I’m stepping up to a digital challenge, and look forward to meeting and working with entrepreneurs, venture capitalists, angel investors and a host of people who study and play an active role in driving the most dynamic engine of capitalism. Are you part of this upswell? Let me hear from you: tpost@forbes.com.

Surviving Sandy: How I Endured And Finally Escaped NY's Katrina

The power flickered and died Monday at 5:40 p.m. It was almost a relief, since we’d been expecting it — and that meant we could get on with the storm. We’d been watching its approach all day on TV, from the visual clichés (the correspondent on the south Jersey shore whose windbreaker is about to be ripped off by winds) to the uniquely arresting (a broken crane atop a building on west 57th street in Manhattan, dangling 75 stories above ground). Now, my wife and dog and I could settle into the darkness in our house in the woods in Westchester county in New York, and see what Sandy brought us.

As it turned out, some misery, as well as unexpected pleasant surprises.

We were lucky. We had no power, no heat, no wifi and, as we soon discovered, no way out of the neighborhood. But we had nothing like the horrendous fires of Breezy Point, the flooding of Staten Island, the back wash that turned the streets of Hoboken, N.J. into a toxic stew or the appalling crime scenes in so many of New York City’s high-rise projects.

The storm barreled in that night and held us in a terrifying embrace for many hours, sounding like the roar of a dozen freight engines bearing down. Always fearful of trees falling on the house, we were spectators to the macabre dance of the surrounding woods, swaying like a giant mosh pit.

Early the next morning we ventured out to take stock of the damage. Many 80-, 90-, 100-foot oaks were snapped–always a heart-stabbing sight–but none near the house. Down the long driveway and up the longer private drive we walked, thinking, “this isn’t too bad, considering.”

Until we reached the road out: totally blocked by a ragged barricade of a dozen huge fallen trees, most of them old pines with their shallow root balls obscenely exposed. There was absolutely no way to get out. We were in for it.

I switched on my AT&T cell phone. Nothing. Peggy’s Verizon iPhone had some juice left. We’d be okay for awhile. But we looked at each other and knew that with no power and a refrigerator and freezer full of food, we were in a race with the Con Ed crews. We knew who would be fleeter of foot.

So, how did we survive?

Unlike most of lower Manhattan, we had running water, even if cold as the brook down from the house. We had plenty of wood, and the fireplace would keep one room somewhat warm. We had a cooktop powered by propane. We had battery-operated Coleman LED lamps and a radio tuned to NPR. And we had plenty of books to read.

A few concerns. I couldn’t reach anyone at work since the servers were down. Or my 96-year-old mom, who lives with my nephew in a Greenwich Village apartment (no water, no heat, no electrons). But I figured my enterprising, 27-year-old nephew would know what to do in extremis– and that Forbes could grind on (as my boss, Lewis D’Vorkin, constantly reminds us, we are no longer a centralized operation).

The first few blackout days were a little fun, in an 18th century kind of way, devoting so much time to the raw-boned necessities of life. There was the matter of hygiene – I heated water on the cook top and gave myself what is euphemistically called a French bath; Peg did the equivalent of an Indonesian dance, hopping in and out of a very cold shower. We ate pretty majestically, stir frying with abandon, and trying not to think over much about the milk and other perishables, as they turned into a middle-school science project in the fridge. We brought in arm loads of wood, and kept the fire going, as the temperature in the house ticked down. We switched on the radio, and heard dreadful stories of suffering and tragic loss.

We met our neighbors, some of whom we knew, others not, and commiserated, offering assistance and cheer, swapping rumors of being rescued. Suburban life these days is so much a matter of people living quiet lives of separation. How good to fracture that habit, even if for a spell.

I had Charles Dickens as a companion. A writer for all seasons, of course, he seemed especially well-suited to the circumstances, brimming with characters (and caricatures) who, pushed to their limits, display extraordinary kindness or cruelty. Our neighbors, fortunately, inclined mostly to kindness.

One young family–just the other side of the barricade of trees, but with two giant pines that had dive-bombed on top of their garage–offered me my first glimpse of the world around us after two days. We drove to their health club a few miles away, passing various scenes of devastation and menacing trees and wires that dangled over the road just above car height.

The club opened its doors to everyone. Bursting with families, it resembled a homeless shelter for the well-to-do. A toasted tuna sandwich, a 40-minute swim followed by a lukewarm shower — it all seemed exotic decadence.

Peggy got out too, thanks to other neighbors, but spent hours waiting — for people to arrive and in endless gas lines.

The days ground on. As the food liquified and the house got chillier and smokier, we felt ourselves slip from the 18th century to the Stone Age. My cell started working again, but both our phones, like our animal spirits, were running down. We started draining Peg’s laptop to charge the iPhones — a weak mother suckling even sicker babies.

In the back of our minds, always, was the question of how we would ever make it out in time to make a flight to Hawaii for a long-scheduled family reunion and vacation. Could we reach our ride to JFK? How about the dog sitter, who didn’t have power, either?

With our cell phones down to the red zone, and momma laptop dead, we did manage to make contact. We packed, ran through the escape route through and under trees and down the road to meet our airport ride. After a rendezvous with the dog sitter, and a last dinner of wilted salad, we set our phone alarms, hoping there would be enough charge to get us up in time.

The next morning, guided by moonlight, we crept out with our suitcases and backpacks, met our car and made it back into the world — of people, noises, light, heat, food, working outlets, transportation that was taking people different places, all a little startling.

Landing 14 hours later in Honolulu, where the air was a shocking 30 degrees warmer, we checked e-mail messages and Facebook, and learned that workers had cut a path through the trees, finally liberating the neighborhood. But as of today, two days later, still no power — and no prospects of any for another five or six days.

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It’s unfortunate that you all have to go through something like Sandy. Our thoughts are with all of you on the East Coast. Hopefully, some good will come out of it and it will bring communities closer together.

Tom, our thoughts and prayers have been with you and those who have been reminded that the force of nature can have devasting consequences, yet you pointed out some of the blessings that come from beginnning acquainted with others.

What I senced was the commraderie that was demonstrated and inspired a nation as you and others found ways to cope and move forward…granting, leaving for Hawaii was smart.

All the best to you and yours. You need to write a follow up on about how your mother faired

Glad you’re OK, Tom. Here on the island where I live, power outages are fairly routine in winter, so we’re pretty trained up and can cook and heat on our woodstove, and folks are amazingly civil and sharing. My tip: Old-fashioned oil lamps. They burn for ages.

All you can do beyond keeping warm, reading, and eating the freezer food up as fast as you can is be thankful for an opportunity to slow down.

My kids actually cry if the power comes back on before bedtime. You can make some great family memories around the stove, reading to them by lamplight.

Tom, thanks for sharing your story! I’m so glad to hear you’re safe and well in Hawaii. Somehow, I’d envisioned Westchester escaping the damage. I’m so sorry that was not the case. I certainly hope you find all restored upon your return!

So glad you are safe and yes, it appears your vacation was very well timed. Dickens was an excellent choice. Hopefully some good will come of the human nature that emerges during this aftermath. Here’s to safe travels and working power upon your return!

I am glad you are OK, Tom. I can commiserate about our recent smartphone-enhanced 17th Century experience. It has been a crazy week-and-a-half here in North Jersey. Some people still do not have power or heat. And we are the lucky ones who do not have flooding. The sad thing is, that in our case, many of the problems could have been prevented… I wrote about it and published it on my Forbes blog this morning… http://onforb.es/Rlw1hc Enjoy Hawaii!